


Much Unseen

by irwxn



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anxiety/panic, I insert a lot of Walt Whitman's "Song of the Open Road", Ignis deals with things the only way he knows how, M/M, creating order where he feels there is none, hey this is going to be a long Ignis journey I hope you love him as much as I do, it's thematic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 05:38:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9868334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irwxn/pseuds/irwxn
Summary: "Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me?Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?"Ignis sighs, and pulls his hands up out of the covers to rub at his face, leaving the warmth behind, leaving the uncomfortable comfort behind.He supposes it’s time to get up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! This is rough right now. It'll smooth out as we move along. This first chapter was quick and morphed many times. Mostly I plan a character examination of Ignis, how he deals with his duties and his feelings for Noct, and how they coincide. I DO promise we'll get to the real good mushy squishy body on body stuff too. Just bear with me.
> 
> Certain tags are subject to change, and to be added. I plan around five chapters, but it may evolve once I start writing. Who knows! If you like it, or have any thoughts or commentary, let me know.

_The earth— that is sufficient;_   
_I do not want the constellations any nearer;_   
_I know they are very well where they are;_   
_I know they suffice for those who belong to them._

Hair like wet sand snakes down and curls right at the rim of his glasses, and a bead of moisture escapes, runs down his chin. The sun is setting. The library is sepia toned, brown bookcases and hard wood tables and chairs, light filtering in from the stained glass— a glorious depiction of the validity of the Bahamut and Lucis Caelum bond.

The wood of his chair felt hard and sturdy underneath him. Ignis felt uncomfortable in his sweats and wet hair.

There he was, though. And there was his seventeen year old prince; a history of cosmology laid out before him, his face stuck to some report or another, drool trickling out of the corner of his mouth.

He will always be more. Ignis knew.

—

It’s morning, kind of; the sun is orange hot breaching the bruised sky. The soft cotton of the Citadel staff sheets is warm and welcoming on Ignis’ cheek. He doesn’t like it.

Hazy blue eyes stare beyond the pillow. Big red numbers on the bedside table clock, 5:36. House plant, glass of water, glasses. Beyond that, his very own on-suite bathroom. He closes his eyes.

He recalls the previous night. He’d met with the Head of Staff, spoke mostly about minute maid duties in the east wing, as well as the menu for the week. He’d sat in on a tactical meeting with Regis and Clarus. He’d directed dinner, and Noctis to the table; he’d eaten with the Prince and Gladio when the King had not shown himself to the dining room.

He’d sent Noctis to the library to work on his readings of the six, noting he’d be there soon. He’d gotten a drink with Gladio and tried to unwind. It didn’t work.

He cleaned the face of the fridge. He had several invasive thoughts that were easily avoidable in the face of the work day that threatened to overpower him sometime in the early morning. He polished the dining room set.

He showered, and went to check on his charge, but also his Prince and friend and the supreme commander of his life. And then he’d carried Noct to his room and tucked him in and went next door and laid awake half of the night.

Ignis sighs, and pulls his hands up out of the covers to rub at his face, leaving the warmth behind, leaving the uncomfortable comfort behind.

He supposes it’s time to get up.  
—

The sky is alight, clouds just infringing on the long-reaching rays of sunlight caressing the courtyard patio.

“Iggy, I just think something needs to change. For your sake. The city is crawling with women, we could go out, have fun,” Gladio murmurs over his beer, expression tight and worried, heart aching for his best friend. A heavy sigh percolates up through his chest. “Maybe I could even help you meet someone.”

“Mmm,” Ignis murmurs disparagingly, eyes shut; the sun feels so good, and he doesn’t want to think about his problems right now. That’s something for the night time. Something for when he’s not on duty. When his charge is asleep. Ignis looks out, beyond the Citadell walls, beyond the trees. Beyond it all, there’s a life out there that isn’t this. That isn’t a sick lust for the untouchable.

He considers it.

Briefly.

“ _Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear, it would not amaze me;_ ” The words roll off his lips like music, and he cracks an eye in Gladio’s direction, the beast of a man cutting his eyes back to the advisor, “ _Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear’d, it would not astonish me._ ”

“Alright, alright, I get it— you don’t have to go all T.S. Elliot on me,” He sighs and stretches out, bottle coming to rest on their side table.

Ignis laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound. Maybe he feels okay today. “Whitman, dear friend.”

“Shucks.” And Gladio’s grin is subtle but genuine. He misses his buddy. Misses a time before time felt like it was running out.

A silence settles over them. Clouds trickle past the sun, casting shade over their faces, seemingly mirroring the coming days. Ignis tries to ignore it. Tries to enjoy his garden; a personal project taken on by him and one of the Crownsgaurd captain hopefuls.

It’s beautiful in the almost summer; flowers and greenery abound, grass shifting in the warm breeze afforded by the low, Tenebrae styled walls. They’re even on the monarch butterfly migration path, this side of Eos. The boys’d dragged a table and lounging set from under the veranda to the sunnier parts of the yard, next to Prompto’s favorite fountain; moss covered and grayish blue, probably close to cracking under the weight of a thousand rusty coins tossed haphazardly about the tiers through the years. Pleasant thoughts tend to lounge about in Ignis’ head while he’s here.

He sometimes even forgets his heart’s breaking. He closes his eyes.

Gladio sighs again. “You’ve been set in your routine too long. You work too much, or something— I don’t know, Ig. I’m worried about you. When was the last time you relaxed? He isn’t your whole life, y’know.” He picks up his beer and takes a long pull.

Ignis does the same, cracks a tiny smile. The lager runs through him, filling his belly. “Oh, but he is,” A sigh, and he opens his eyes fully again, to fully impress the startling effervescence of the garden once more into his mind; the beauty constantly surrounding him— the paradise, the lovely weather of the crown city, his almost pampered life, being so close always to that he years to touch, but won’t— “ _Still here,_ ” A catch in his throat, “ _I carry my burdens; I carry them, men and women— I carry them wherever I go; I swear it is impossible to get rid of them_ ;” He leans back. “ _I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return._ ”

His friend of a very long time stares at him, close to disbelief. “Just, think about it.”

Gladio gets up and leaves.

Ignis is alone. Just how he always is.

—

  
Ignis wakes with overcast oceans in his heart, storms in his eyes. Glimmering waters, the Quay, the shining sun, they are all far from him this morning. Or middle of the night. There is much unseen here.

He clutches at his pajamas, pulls at his sweaty t-shirt. Sometimes the hurt wakes him up. Sometimes knowing he’s breathing in the next room over is more painful than helpful.

The bed is hot, he’s got to kick the covers off. He’s dizzy. There’s rain outside, pounding against his window. He considers turning the light on but maybe he’s going to be sick so he just throws his feet off the side of the bed and pushes his head between his knees. He wishes Gladio was right. He wishes he wishes. He can’t breathe.

The hot, slick throbbing in his pajama pants— remnants of his inability to control his own damn dreams. His stomach continues to churn.

The hurt claws down his chest, snags his lungs and squeezes. Wheezes barely escape. Tears run down his face and he rocks himself back and forth, back and forth. He wishes. He wishes it was easier. He wishes he was normal. His toes curl in agony along the baseboard of his bed. He cries and cries and sobs, and he’s so scared of nothing. He wishes he was normal.

He tries to reach for his glass of water. His glass of water he fills to the exact same level every night before bed. His glass of water that sits right next to the clock, to the left of the plant. But he’s shaking too much and it hits the floor with a clank and that makes it worse. It makes it worse. He wishes he was normal.

One breath in. Blood drawn on lips from a clenched jaw. Hands in hair. One breath out.

“Ignis?” A knock on the door. His heart, not half so busy as his brain, leaps in his chest. “Are you okay? Can I come in?” It’s him.

He can’t answer for a long time. He thinks Noct goes back to bed. He hopes. More time passes. The rain slows, shifts so that it can barely be heard. Without his glasses, the room is a gray and white blur. Without his rigid layers of clothing he’s more susceptible to himself. He breathes. He’s sure Noct is gone. He’s calmer now. He’s able to pick up the glass off the floor. He clears his throat, and says that no, he is fine, go back to bed Noct. As if somebody was listening. As if he was still there. Or maybe as if he was ever there.

Ignis is alone. Just how he always is.

—

Noct is training with Gladio. Ignis sits in on the session, chatting absentmindedly with Prompto as swords swing in every direction. His lips still taste like blood.

He watches Noct. His blue-gray hair. Dark eyes. His slouch when he walks. The slight stiffness on the his lower left side. Impossible to notice unless you knew him before the scar. And Ignis had known him a very long time.

On the outside, Ignis is the Advisor he needs to be. His posture is fully erect. His hands are daggers at his sides, always anticipating. Sagacious eyes sit perfectly knowingly behind glasses so clear they might not even be there. There’s always at least three layers of perfectly ironed clothes. It has to be three or otherwise it makes it worse. They’re always starched. He’s armed. Incase Gladio isn’t around and he has to save Noct’s life or something. He knows that’s improbable.

Inside, though. Inside is always a different story. A steady ache, a clenching sensation all throughout his chest, all throughout the day. He doesn’t know if it’s normal. He doesn’t know what it is. He knows that his breathing is a conscious effort most of the time. If he forgets to breathe, sometimes the ache gets worse. Normally it’s times like these. When he’s watching him.

He feels his heart beat in his chest. He always can. Noct lunges, swings, warps. He crouches and jumps. He falls back and then swings around and takes down his sworn shield. There is nothing he can’t do. Nothing he can’t do.

And then there is Ignis. Who can’t keep his head on straight. Who doesn’t feel things, and then feels them all at once. Sometimes he thinks the wafting of his cleaning chemicals is actually what keeps him from exploding while the sun is still up. Sometimes.

Anything else would be easier. Anyone else would be easier to deal with. He shifts his gaze to Prompto. Analyzes his freckles, his sparkly blue eyes. His enthusiasm as he cheers on Noct. His bubbling to Ignis about his photos from the park. It would be so easy. So much easier.

But there is nothing there. No heart pounding, not fierce need to protect. No imagining lips on lips, skin on skin. When Prompto bumps into him in training, or the hall, or touches his shoulder before exiting the car, there is no lasting response. Ignis doesn’t take those thoughts to bed.

He likes to think there would be no suppression and eruption if it was Prompto. Maybe he would feel things normally. Maybe the gut wrenching panic that gripped him every night, shook him awake and broke open his lips and the skin surrounding his nails, would vanish.

Prompto tells him about missing the train this morning, and the coffee he spilt all over his pants. Ignis smiles, offers to take care of it for him. Prompto blushes.

It would be so easy.


End file.
